Affair of The Woman
by Anozira
Summary: Was Holmes in love with Irene Adler? Lestrade investigates and in the process discovers something she didn't expect. Don't worry, there's SHBL too! Complete!
1. chapter 1

_Hey all! There isn't nearly enough Sherlock Holmes in the 22nd Century fan fiction out there, so here's my little addition. You don't really need an extensive knowledge of the series to read this. All you have to know is that Holmes has been brought back to life in the 22nd Century to help fight Professor Moriarty (yes the original-or rather a clone of the original). Lestrade, the narrator, is a descendent of the inspector from the canon. She's a strong-willed woman, a Scotland Yard inspector who works closely with Holmes. Watson is a robot. Ok, now you're ready to read._

_Disclaimer: I don't own any of this_

The Affair of The Woman_  
_

The fire filled the room with an orange glow that I had always found reassuring and comforting. I sat as close as possible, reveling in the heat. It was such a rarity in New London to find an honest-to-goodness flame and wood fire that always I shamelessly made up excuses to visit Baker Street during winter when a fire seemed most appealing. What I love best wis the smell. Artificial fires could mimic the light and the heat, but they could never re-create the wonderful smell of wood smoke that permeated 221B when the fire was lit.

I was bored. I was a slow day, and I itched for something to do. Restlessly, I glanced over at Holmes who was curled in an armchair opposite me. He was studying a book minutely. A copy, ironically enough, of Dr. Watson's journals. I fought the urge to laugh out loud. Here was a picture the tabloids would pay good money for, Sherlock Holmes reading the tales of his own adventures!

Holmes suddenly looked up from his reading, and I prepared a snide comment in hopes that I could at least break the boredom with an arguement, but it died on my lips when I realized he wasn't looking at me. He had turned his gaze, instead, on a photograph that hung over the desk. It was a photograph of a woman dressed in Victorian clothes. The woman was extraordinarily beautiful, and the dress she wore was luxurious and flattering. I imagined how it must have shone in the light, accenting the woman's figure and complementing, I was certain, her eye color. Victorian clothing did have its good points, for all the internal havoc a corset could reek on the body.

"Who is that, Holmes?" I asked suddenly, half startled to hear my own voice in the quiet room. "I don't think I've ever seen that photo before."

"No I don't suppose you have," he answered neutrally, "Deidre helped me print it out from her computer. She really is a very clever girl."

"Who? Deidre or the woman in the photo?"

"Both" Holmes replied, a strange expression in his sardonic eyes.

"Well, who is it Holmes? A former client? A family member? Come on, tell me!"

He looked suddenly embarrassed. "Oh, she's just a woman of my acquaintance…my _former_ acquaintance," he amended. "I found a photo of her on the internet and decided to paste it there for old time's sake. A reminder..."

"You're being mysterious with me, Holmes. Stop that!" I waved a hand in front of his usually keen eyes, but Sherlock Holmes was far, far away, lost in his memories. Strange, Holmes was usually so observant. I had never seen him like this and it worried me slightly. "We've got to get you a case before you go all mushy and sentimental talking about the 'good old days'"

"Never fear, I am not about to melt at your feet in a puddle of sentimental hogwash. You have my word. I was merely reflecting on the limitations of the human mind." And with these words he rose and retired to his room.

I sat for a while in stunned silence. I have known Holmes long enough to be able to predict what his moods will be at any given day. On an interesting case he was energetic and practically unstoppable. Between cases his mood would vary from bored to downright depressed. Occasionally I would find him in a black mood. He would lie on the couch and refuse to move, eat, or even acknowledge the presence of other people in the room. I thought I knew the man, but here was something I had never seen before, something completely different. It worried me slightly, I admit.

I picked up the copy of Watson's journals that he had been reading. He had left it open, face down on the armchair so that when I lifted it, it was still on the page he had been reading. Out of curiosity, I looked to see which case he had been remembering. I flipped back a few pages until I could find the title, reading the simple, black bold-face print in surprise.

**A Scandal in Bohemia**

"The Woman" I said softly out loud, looking back at the picture on the wall. Holmes had been thinking about Irene Adler "of dubious and questionable memory," I grinned evilly. Here was another little tidbit for the tabloids. I could see the headlines now: "Holmes Ruminates, Remembers Past Love…"

I stopped abruptly, embarrassed at my own thoughts. Surely that was no more true than most of the pointless facts people had invented about his past from lack of anything better to do. The Sherlock Holmes of literary fame was a cold scientist, a thinking machine who could not afford to give in to the softer emotions. _Yet, he is human_ a nagging voice inside my head whispered, _And he must have feelings, however well disguised they are_. I mentally stuffed a very large shoe into the nagging voice's mouth and rose to go, bidding good night to Watson, who was just getting ready to shut down for the night.

The next morning dawned bright and crisp. I, however, had risen long before the lazy sun had and was already at the Yard hard at work on paperwork. As I mindlessly filled in the papers pertaining to the case I had just solved (with more than a great deal of help from Holmes) I thought about the incident of the previous night. It still bothered me, that little memory fest of his. Though why shouldn't he look back on the memories of his previous life? The more I pondered the quandary, the more it worried me, and I decided that she would have to do some discrete investigating. At least it would quell the boredom.

Four hours, 6 cups of coffee, and about 52 million pieces of paper later, I was finally getting somewhere. "Zedding Victorians! Why couldn't they just download everything onto a database!" I groaned angrily to the dust bunnies that adorned the shelves. I distastefully surveyed the wreckage of the records room where I had been searching for information on the life of one, Irene Adler. So far, I had found absolutely nothing useful, until I stumbled onto a folder full of old, yellowed documents. The whole thing looked as if it might disintegrate if touched the wrong way. I held the precious file folder over my head and waded out of the paper-filled room, pausing briefly for a moment of silence for the poor janitor that would have to clean the mess up. Oh well. I couldn't let a little mess stop me from making progress, even if the room did look like hurricane Beth had been through it.

At home, with a seventh cup of coffee I looked over the papers in the folder. The first one was a birth certificate for a child named Irene Adler, born in 1885 in New Jersey. The second and third documents were both programs from Operas performed at the _Imperial Opera of Warsaw_. The first one was for _La Traviata, _the second for _Carmen._ In both, Irene played the title roll. The fifth was a faded and barely readable newspaper article, detailing the singer's last performance before her retirement. The sixth document was no more than a half sheet, but it was thick, expensive paper with elaborate and perhaps overly ornate script. It was an invitation to the wedding of "A monarch you have come to know quite well," signed with a flourish by said monarch. The final document was a death certificate with an obituary at the bottom stating simply that the retired opera singer had died in a tragic train accident.

Sighing, I sat back, brooding on all the work I had put in for evidence that merely confirmed what I already knew. I threw the folder onto the bed in frustration. Fruitless, the whole thing. I might as well give up. Holmes's past was a mystery he kept under lock and key, and it would take a crowbar the size of the New Scotland Yard to break into it. I thought bitterly about all the time I had spent trying to find the useless papers sitting on my bed. The bed! Holmes's room was the one place that was entirely his in the house and no one else went into it. If he kept memories of the past anywhere, they would be in there. I hurried out the door and over to 221 B. without locking the door to my flat.

I was lucky. Holmes had been called away on a case. "A very small case" Watson assured me, as if he worried that I would be hurt Holmes was investigating without me. In any other situation, I would be, but now I had a purpose, and Holmes gallivanting off on his own in search of someone else's stolen stylus box didn't phase me, in fact it helped me.

I looked at the clock on the wall, and then back at Watson. "Isn't it time to pick the irregulars up at school?" I asked. Watson had been bringing the irregulars back to Baker Street after school each day for "training" though mostly they just played around. He made the robotic equivalent of a harrumph and headed out to his hover car, leaving me alone in the house.

Without hesitation I penetrated Holmes's sanctuary. Holmes's room was undoubtedly the messiest room in the house. His furniture seemed to be buried under a sea of random objects. There was an odd assortment of the Victorian and the modern in the room. On the floor, books and ancient paper newspapers piled on top of their electronic equivalents. The walls were covered in photos of criminals both from the 19th century and the 22nd century. There was even an old writing set on the desk complete with inkwell, pen, and blotting paper.

I surveyed the room at a loss as to where to begin. Where would Holmes keep the secrets of his past? I flipped through some of the more well-worn books scattered about, shaking a few looking for papers, but all I found was a laundry list. Perhaps the desk would yield better secrets. I sat at the chair and began to inspect the drawers. The middle one was locked, which boded well, but where to find the key? The logical thing would be for it to be in one of the drawers, so I opened the other two, rifling through the multitude of yellowed papers I found there. I was about to give up and check the night stand, when I happened to drop one of the books I was holding into the now empty second drawer. It fell with a thunk, a decidedly hollow sound.

The false bottom lifted out relatively easily, and inside the contents were covered in a thick layer of dust. There was no key in the drawer, unfortunately. In fact, the only thing in it was a gold pocket watch which once must have been bright and shiny, but now was rather dull and grey. I lifted it carefully out of the drawer and held it to my ear. It ticked! I opened the pocket watch in surprise and watch the hands move slowly around the face. Then I noticed that there was an inscription on the lid. When I read it, I knew I had struck gold, both literally and figuratively.

The inscription inside the watch said:

_To S from I  
A memory  
Of Montenegro_

So this was the evidence. Someone with the first initial "I" had given Holmes a pocket watch in Montenegro, and it didn't take brilliant deductive skills to figure out who "I" had been. I took the pocket watch out to the sitting room and waited.

_Please be nice and review. I apologize to the more traditional Holmesians out there. I tend to ride both sides of the fence. So if you prefer traditional stories, check out "The Case of the Still Heart" (which will be updated soon, I promise) and "M is for Murder" (which will also be updated soon. Gah! I shouldn't write more than one story at a time!)_

_-Anozira_


	2. chapter 2

_Disclaimer: Not mine, don't sue_

"What happened in Montenegro?" I asked, dropping the pocket watch into his lap. He picked it up, holding it like a precious diamond, examining it in the light. I flinched and waited for the inevitable brisk remark that would close the subject forever. Strangely, it didn't come.

When he spoke, his voice was filled with wonder, tempered with some deeper emotion I couldn't quite pinpoint. "I had forgotten about this. How strange. Where did you find it?"

"In a hidden compartment in your desk," I replied evenly.

"Ah, you've been doing some investigating, I take it?"

"Yes, into your past. You can't go all sentimental on me suddenly and expect nothing to come of it. If you don't speak about your past, I'm forced to take less direct action."

"And how can this minor event in my past have any effect on the present?" I nearly quailed before his keen gaze, but forced myself to remain firm.

"Is it minor?" I asked sternly, "It seems to be affecting your work, and whatever affects your work, affects me. Holmes, this is the 22nd century. The concept of what is and isn't appropriate has changed drastically. What was naughty in the 19th century is a common occurrence today. You had an affair, didn't you?"

He sighed and got up from his chair, walking away from me to lean on the fireplace, his back to the room. When he spoke, he spoke quietly and resignedly, like a man confessing a mortal sin.

"Yes, as you have deduced, I had an affair with Irene Adler. Ha! What would Watson's readers do if they knew?" He chuckled to himself. He was right, though. Any fan would pay lots of money for a confession like that from the mouth of the detective himself. I marveled that he was telling me. I decided to push my luck and question him further.

"When did it happen?"

"We met in Montenegro during the three years I was presumed dead. No one knew, not even Watson." He laughed mirthlessly. "The world saw me the way Watson wrote me, a cold thinking machine. But," he turned to me, emotion filling his eyes, "I am a man, and as such am heir to all the trials thereof. I am not a cold thinker, nor am I a perfect reasoner. Irene was so different from people of her time. She lived with an independence and disdain for conventions that I admired. And she was intelligent, god was she intelligent! She beat me at my own game in London, pulled the wool over my eyes and fled to France with her photo. And then, years later, she saw through my disguise when I was presumed to be dead." He began to pace in front of the fireplace and I sat mesmerized by his tale.

"We had a brief and rather rocky affair. We were both very strong-willed people and when our wills clashed, we would both dig our heels in stubbornly. But for all that, I loved her company. It was refreshing to converse with someone whose intellect rivaled mine. We would walk through the park deducing the lives of the people around us, as my brother and I did when we were children. It was a wonderful, carefree year we spent together. I felt as if I had been granted new life. But then, Mycroft contacted me. Colonel Sebastian Moran had escaped the nets of Scotland Yard and had regrouped with the few men that were left. He knew I was alive and planned to finish his master's work. So I prepared to escape to the east in her Majesty's service. I asked Irene to accompany me in the guise of an explorer and his wife. She declined, and I left for Tibet in the beginning of the new year. She departed for Prague at the same time, and I never saw her again. I wrote her at first, but then it became too dangerous. In the end, we completely lost touch."

He dropped limply into his armchair and I let his words wash over me in shock. He had just told me a secret even Watson had not been privy to. He had confided an enormous amount of trust in me, bared his heart for me, and I was afraid about what he expected in return.

I was also slightly apprehensive at the feeling his confession had aroused in me. On the surface I felt shock and pity, for he obviously missed her greatly. Much deeper down, however, so deep I could barely admit it, another feeling lurked. I was jealous of Irene Adler. She had been the only woman to break that severe, intellectual shell he hid behind. She had broken down his defenses, and he had broken down hers, and they had shared a bond. A bond so strong it had lasted over 200 years.

We sat for a long time in silence, Holmes lounging in the armchair, staring at the ceiling, I furiously trying to crush the emotions that welled up inside me. The silence was not one of the comfortable silences friends often share. It was oppressive, and I longed to break it, but I couldn't. For the first time, I was afraid in the presence of, well, anyone, and I hated it.

Holmes broke the silence first. He looked over at me, that quirky grin on his face that signified he was about to make a snide comment. "Too bad you didn't bring her back as well."

I jumped in my chair, surprised. "You want her brought back?" That jealous voice was screaming now.

He actually laughed at this. "Oh god no! Make no mistake, that year was _one _of the best of my _former _life, but I could never repeat it now, and I do not wish to. If Irene were here today, one of us would kill the other before the day was out."

"Now, wait, I'm confused. I thought you just told me that you were in love. Don't you miss her?"

"Oh certainly I miss her. She was a wonderful woman, truly one of a kind. A fortunate thing, for if there were more than one Irene Adler in the world, it would be the death of my career. Imagine how my reputation would suffer if I were outmaneuvered by every lovely woman of my aquaintence." I snorted at his chauvinism, and he raised an eyebrow at me. "But, however much I may miss her company from time to time, I would not wish her back, nor even wish to be transported back to that time. It was enjoyable, but it was not perfect and it came to an end in a suitable way. I never regretted that parting. It was the natural way of things. We were neither of us well suited to wedlock, and we both knew the relationship could not continue forever the way it was."

It was a good explanation, but I was still unconvinced. "Why have you been moping around for the past few days acting like your dog had been shot?"

"I was not 'moping around' as you put it."

"Then what were you doing?" I was pressing him, but I deserved an answer, I told myself firmly.

For a long time he didn't answer. He merely frowned at a point somewhere above my head. "Well?" I asked, annoyed. He wasn't going to get out of this _that_ easily.

"I was meditating on the stubbornness of women. How curious that in 200 years, despite all the 'advancements,' nothing has changed." He stood up and headed with purpose towards the door.

"Where are you going?" I rose quickly.

"Out for a walk. I have been indoors too long today, I need some air."

Oh god. The way he looked at me. Something stirred inside that had been hidden a long time. An emotion I had squelched almost subconsciously out of long habit made a very strong appearance. I turned away from those blazing eyes angrily. It had been a long day. I was exhausted and he had shocked me with his revelation. It was merely a reaction. But all the same, I was afraid to let him see my…weakness. _Stop being ridiculous, Lestrade_ I told myself forcefully.

Holmes spoke to me from the door. I could almost hear his eyebrow arching, questioningly. "What ever is the matter Lestrade?" _That makes two of us who want to know_ I thought.

Out loud, I replied, "Nothing at all, Holmes. Enjoy your walk." There was a moment of silence, and then I heard the door open and close quietly. He left. Just like that. _You're making a fool of yourself_ that angry voice said in my head. Why did it my inner voice always sound like my mother? _You're looking for something that isn't there. You're not Irene Adler. You never will be, especially not to him. He said himself there is only one Irene Adler, and she's dead._

My fists clenched in frustration. I felt the urge to beat something. If I had been able to beat that awful nagging voice inside my head, I would have done so mercilessly. Instead I contented myself with shouting into the silent room.

"Dammit!"

_Review, review! Chapter two is up, and there's at least one more coming, maybe more depending on how far I decide to carry this. You like? You hate? Let me know. I'd love your thoughts because this is new for me. I usually do rather dark, complex (and sometimes angsty) mysteries, so fluff is not something I have mastered. How am I doing so far? Cookies and love to all reviewers, and a BIG thank you to Martianlightsaber (great name, by the way). The next update will be longer apart, as I have to pack up and move out of my dorm room in the next two days and won't be able to get at a computer for a while longer than that.  
_


	3. chapter 3

_Hmmmmmmm, What to do during a 2 hour lay over in the Huston airport? Why, write sh22 fanfiction of course! The narrator changes to a neutral 3rd person in the first part of this chapter, so that we can hear Holmes's perspective. Is he really thinking about Irene? Or are his thoughts focused more on a certain inspector we all know. Well, I'm sure you all know the answer, but you should read this anyway…_

_Disclaimer: Ding! You are correct, Anozira does not own SH22._

Sherlock Holmes left 221 B in less than his usual composure. His Inverness hung loosely about his shoulders, unbuttoned and wrinkled. His deerstalker sat crookedly on unkempt dirty-blond hair. For a man so scrupulously neat the vast majority of the time, this uncharacteristic show of carelessness clearly reflected some inner turmoil.

As he left the flat, Watson called out to him, "Dinner will be ready soon, Holmes," but Holmes chose to ignore him, shutting the door to the flat behind him softly.

The cold New London air hit him like a hammer. The cold mist of the fog condensed on his skin, chilling him far more effectively than mere rain, and the brisk wind stank of fish and burning petrol from countless hovercars in the sky above. _A useless waste of the earth's resources,_ he thought to himself. He turned and headed down towards the waterfront on foot, walking slowly and relishing the feel of the cold air on his flushed skin.

He stared into the brackish water, moodily. "Why did I react that way?" he asked a seagull who perched on the railing and looked at him curiously as if to ask _what are you doing here?_ Holmes fed it a piece of cracker he found in his pocket. "What on earth prompted me to tell her that?" The memory of Irene had haunted him these last few days, he could hear her laughing at him as he talked to the seagull. He thought about Lestrade sitting back in 221 B staring at the door. The atmosphere had changed drastically after he had confessed that memory to her. He had seen Irene sitting in his sitting room where Lestrade had been, Irene's usual small inner smile replaced with Lestrade's mocking expression. He had run away from the vision and did not relish the idea of going back soon. Instead he pulled his Inverness closer around himself and fended off the persistent seagull.

Lestrade did remind him of Irene in a way. They had the same irrepressible spirit, the same haughtiness and lack of respect for conventions, the same desire to be self supportive. They were neither of them afraid to show their intelligence, unwilling to act dumb to please intimidated men. He had respected and loved Irene for her independence and rutheless disregard for convention, and he felt the same way about Lestrade.

_Wait a minute now, _he thought, _do I feel the same way about Lestrade?_ He had admitted to himself that he respected her. She was intelligent for a Yardie. But, then, Scotland Yard had made some impressive improvements over the years, despite much that was still the same. _I'm evading the subject, the yard is not what's in question here, Lestrade is. _

The seagull had grown bolder and was currently searching for more cracker bits among the spacious pockets of his Inverness. "Let us examine the situation, shall we?" He said to it, ignoring the fact that reasonably sane men did _not _talk to surprisingly friendly seagulls on the shore of the Thames. "I reread Watson's account of the Adler case. I had Diedre print out a picture of Irene to hang in its old place above the desk. Lestrade noticed my uncharacteristic behavior and investigated it, and when she confronted me with her knowledge, I told her the entire story without hesitation or regret. Then something happened, the mood in the room changed, and I left. These are the facts of the case." The seagull pecked at his sleeve, and he shook it off irritably.

"But that still does not answer why I spent so much time remembering that year in Montenegro, nor why I felt the need to tell Lestrade about it. _You've ignored the obvious, Sherlock, there's only one reason, and you know it._ He turned away from the seagull, wondering why it had suddenly sounded like his brother Mycroft.

But, could he really…No, certainly not! He respected her, they worked together. Theirs was a professional relationship, nothing more. _And yet, the atmosphere of that room…_

"Stop it!" he said to himself _You're talking to yourself, now. If you're not careful you're going to end up in a cell. That would be difficult to explain to Lestrade._ He shook his head to clear it. But he couldn't seem to get the image of her standing staring at him expectantly with her hands on her hips as she asked him what had happened all those years ago in Montenegro. And he had told her. And then…For a brief moment in that room he had felt as if he had been transported back 200 years to his hotel room in Montenegro the day Irene showed up and asked him what he was doing in Montenegro and why was alive. How odd. Both times he had clung to the deception. He had run away from the unsettling feeling. "There was only one Irene Adler." He told himself, softly. "But she is not Irene Adler, she's different. She's presumptuous, rash, and stubborn as hell, but she has a sense of humor that Irene never had." He stared into the Thames, battling with himself.

"Damn!" he said suddenly, startling the seagull which squawked indignantly and flew away.

_This is only half of this chapter, but I'm posting it anyway. What do you think? Do you like the 3rd person? Or would you prefer I write it from Holmes's perspective (this always scares me, I'm afraid I'll never get his perspective exactly right...)The next half is on its way. I'm now completely out of school and moved out, so I have lots of time to devote to writing until my summer job starts up in Mid June :-)_

_REVIEW!_

_ps: BIG thank you to all reviewers, I will send you all replies as soon as the chapter is completely done._


	4. chapter 3 12

_Here's the second half of the chapter. I posted it as a second chapter because it was just easier. Big thank you to all reviewers._

_Martianlightsaber: You are the sole reason I finished so quickly. Your encouragement helped me fight my natural tendency to procrastinate, so Thank you! By the way, if I haven't said this before, your pen name is awesome!_

_Maureen: Thanks for the review. I'm not usually a huge Irene fan either, but it worked with this story. Eh, the plot bunnies made me do it. Your site is what got me interested in SH22 in the first place, so thanks!_

_Neoholmes: Here's your H/L, hope I didn't butcher it. I don't think I did, but then, you never know._

_Snowchaser: Woohoo! Cookies! (devours cookie voratiously) murphlemufflegrmph YUM ! Send that chap my way whenever you finish it. I have a whole month in which I have nothing to do, so I'll have plenty of time to read it :-) _

_So, On with the chap-Lestrade narrates again_

After waiting an hour for Holmes to return from his "walk" I concluded he wasn't coming back any time soon and rose to go, nodding goodbye to a very disgruntled Watson on my way out. He hated it when Holmes skipped meals, especially if no one else was there to enjoy the left over food.

_Holmes really can be strange sometimes _I thought to myself as I exited 221B. _I mean, what normal man reveals an intimate secret and then runs off without so much as a "goodbye?"_ I shook my head. _Never in a million years will I understand Sherlock Holmes._

It took several minutes of standing on the curb in front of 221B cursing the cold and the evil robots that had hidden my car for me to remember that the hovercar was in the shop for repairs. I set off to find a cab, grumbling and huddling closer into my coat to ward off the cold, and it was in this irritated and uncomfortable state that I ran into Sherlock Holmes. Literally.

"Oh zed!" I exclaimed in surprise, the impact of the collision winded me briefly.

"I do apologize, I didn't see you there," a cultured English accent said somewhere above me.

"Holmes?" He reached down his hand to help me up, chuckling in surprise.

"Lestrade! What an odd coincidence."

"Its fate Holmes." I sighed. If it wasn't now, when would it ever happen? "We need to talk."

"I quite agree. Might I suggest somewhere out of the cold?"

"You might, but Watson is currently making dinner at 221B and if we went back there he'd force food down our throats."

"And such a condition is not terribly conducive to discussion." He agreed. "Very well then, let us walk. We turned and headed in the direction Holmes had come from, towards the waterfront.

We walked in silence, staring at our feet and trying our best to ignore the increasingly uncomfortable atmosphere that seemed to surround us like the fog. At last I looked over at Holmes, walking with his hands behind his back, his hat brim pulled down over his eyes in an effort to ward off the cold. "Well, Holmes."

"Well, Lestrade?" He stopped and faced me. _Its now or never_ that little voice said inside my head, while the rest of me protested, coming up with millions of reasons for why this was a bad idea. I took a deep breath and looked at Holmes.

"Lestrade, I apologize for running out on you the way I did. You must understand, I am not very good at expressing my feelings. It is something I have always tried to avoid. My general opinion is that emotion interferes with my work, but there are times where it must be expressed and embraced." Here he paused and my mind raced. Was he trying to tell me what I think he was trying to tell me? His next words confirmed it. "I…care very deeply about you and…"

At this point in his speech, I interrupted Holmes by stepping forward so that we were practically nose to nose. We stood so close I could feel the heat of his body and smell the slightly musty, yet pleasant scent of his clothing. His breath was hot on my cheek. He was breathing hard. "I have not been thinking about Irene, Lestrade." He said softly.

"No?" I whispered as well, and our bodies moved closer. _Oh god, what am I doing? This is a mistake._ Those voices were still doing battle in my head.

"No." He replied. Somehow I found the courage to look into his fathomless blue-grey eyes. They were filled with confusion, fear, and something else. _Love, _I thought. I turned away.

He guided my head back towards his face with strong fingers on my chin. Those eyes bored into me. "We have been hiding for too long. It is time we were honest with each other."

_To hell with caution and propriety_, I thought and leaned forward before I had time to second guess myself. My hand found its way to the back of his head of its own accord and my fingers entwined themselves in his uncombed blonde hair. _No turning back now_ I thought, and pressed my lips to his.

For a frightening moment Holmes stiffened and did not respond. Briefly, I wondered if I had misjudged his words. After a terrifying millisecond (which felt more like an hour) his arms wrapped around my waist and his lips pressed on mine with the same force. His hand moved up my spine to my hair and I shuddered.

He pulled away looking at me with concern. "You are cold."

"No shit Sherlock." I replied. I have always wanted to say that to him. He looked confused. "It's an expression." I explained with a slightly lopsided grin. He smiled at me and pulled me closer, wrapping his Inverness around our bodies. I rested my head on his shoulder, reveling in the warmth our bodies created. His arms were clasped tightly around my shoulders as if he were afraid I might try to get away. _Wow, I just kissed my childhood idol, _I thought suddenly. Incredible.

"You understand, of course, how potientially dangerous this whole thing is?" He whispered quietly into my ear. He would try to be logical at a time like this.

"Yes, yes I know there are complications. But do we have to think about them now?" I complained. _Way to spoil the moment, Holmes._

"If Moriarty finds this out, it could put you in unnecessary danger." He said, he sounded worried.

"And if Greyson finds out, he'll have my badge." I replied. "I know the risks, Holmes, and so do you. I've tried to reason with myself, believe me. Myself and I have had many interesting conversations about you."

He laughed and crooked his head so that he was looking at my face. "You shouldn't talk to yourself, Lestrade. It's never a good sign." I hit him playfully on his arm. "In all seriousness, Beth, Moriarty must not find out. I could never forgive myself if something happened to you."

"Me neither, Holmes. I would have said something to you much sooner if I hadn't been afraid of the consequences. But, I'm willing to runt the risks if you are."

For answer he cupped my head in his hands and kissed me gently. His hands ran down my neck to the small of my back, and the skin on my spine tingled with his touch. I ran my hands through his hair, across his strong jawbone and over his shoulders and upper chest, wanting to remember the moment, the feel of his body the warmth our bodies created covered with his Inverness. Around us, the city seemed to stop. It felt like we were suspended in time.

After an eternity, he pulled away again. "Poor Watson will be wondering what happened to us. He puts up such a fuss whenever I skip meals. He reminds me of Mrs. Hudson in a way. Shall we go back and enjoy his handiwork?"

"I would hate to keep him waiting too long. The world has enough troubles without adding an impatient, overprotective robot to the mix."

"Quite right, Lestrade. Come." He untangled himself, buttoning his Inverness and straightening his deerstalker, which had been pushed back to rest on the back of his head, the brim crowning his face like a halo.

After he had straightened himself, we set off for Bakerstreet. I didn't realize until we were almost there that we had walked the entire way hand in hand. _ Eat your heart out, Irene Adler._

THE END

(or is it the beginning?)

A/N: Well, I've finished it! There may be a sequel on the way, one with more mystery and action and less fluff. Let me know what you think of it. Is it ok? Are you drowning in the fluff? I had fun writing it, so there will definitely be more. (sorry to the readers of my other Holmes stuff, that has been put on hold due to lack of good ideas. Suggestions welcome) Thanks so much for reading. Please REVIEW!

To all fans of SH22: I have a plan. Its high time they released the entire season on DVD, and I bet we can get them to do it if we can find enough support. I'm going to find out where to write letters to (Maureen, you seem to be an expert on all things sherlockian, any ideas?). The rest of you, your job is to find as many people as possible and get them to write letters to the people at DIC requesting them to release the full season of sh22 on DVD. Make sure you write one yourself. Together, we may be able to actually get this to happen! I will post the address when I find it in this story. I will also post it on the message board on Maureen's site. Spread the word, lets make this happen! (today the cable company, tomorrow the world! Muahahahahahahaha)


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